US: Volume One

By M.P. Web

When a fishing trip off the Florida coast takes a fateful turn, Paul Fuller is forced to face the unthinkable. A terrifying light is the culprit behind a mass disappearance, but who or what is responsible for it? As the fabric of his sanity unravels he must navigate the pitfalls of a perilous new existence. Mysteriously paired with someone whose survival is as baffling as his own, will the unveiling of mankind’s true origins solve the greatest puzzle of all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684560837

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US

Volume One

M.P. Web

Copyright © 2019 M.P. Web

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2019

ISBN 978-1-68456-082-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-68456-083-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part 1

Chapter 1

On the verge of panic, Fuller awoke an hour before his alarm was set to go off—relieved to escape from where his subconscious had wandered. Breathing as though he had just sprinted for miles, his heart raced accordingly.

As his awareness slowly returned, Fuller’s eyes searched the darkness for something familiar, something to assure him he was indeed awake—and safely in his own home. Locating the secondary lights from his television and cable box provided his mind the assurance it sought, his breathing and pulse gradually following suit. After sitting up, intermittent flashbacks from the nightmare stopped entirely. Curiously, despite how real it had felt, the details of the dream were gone before his mind could make sense of it.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep for an hour, Fuller got out of bed. A rare nightmare had been the culprit that time, yet the streak remained intact; it was six years and counting since the last time he had needed an alarm to wake up on time. Regardless if it was a workday or he just needed to be up by seven thirty on a day off, his internal clock never allowed him to oversleep anymore, always awakening him before his alarm got the chance.

Fuller (what he had gone by almost exclusively since high school instead of his first name, Paul) didn’t mind losing the extra pillow time as he brushed his teeth that morning, knowing it would insure his arrival at the marina by sunrise. He felt rested, regardless, and there was nothing ever wrong with being early, in his opinion—especially when it came to days like today. For the first time in months, he had been looking forward to something all week, something other than just getting home and passing out to SportsCenter. Close enough to a year had passed since he last had a Saturday and Sunday off, and a weekend to spend however he pleased had finally arrived.

After giving his head a quick close buzz then showering, he caught the weather portion of the news on Channel 3 while eating a bowl of cereal, the nebulous dream a distant glimmer of memory by then. Awaiting his coffee to finish brewing, Fuller washed the dish and spoon he had used before placing them back in the dish drainer.

Subsequent to finishing the rest of his morning routine, Fuller took his time making sure he had everything together. Sometimes forgetting just the simplest thing could have a domino effect out on the water.

When the truck was loaded, he went back inside and turned the lights off before locking up, his excitement continuing to build. After getting in the driver’s seat, he went over his mental checklist one final time. Certain he had remembered everything, Fuller started his burgundy Chevy Tahoe and threw it in reverse. As the anxious Florida native backed out of his driveway, the clock on the dashboard showed he was a half hour ahead of schedule.

The traffic was light when he merged onto the highway, most of the locals still at home that early Saturday morning in Florida. Too bad the roads weren’t this empty for his weekday commute, he thought, turning up his stereo when an old Soundgarden song came on. In his opinion, satellite radio was one of the greatest innovations from the last two decades. Anything that made his daily commutes more tolerable was well worth the twelve dollars a month he paid for it. Lithium was his channel of choice, as it often played the countless anthems of his misguided youth.

Off to a good start already, his day would only get better Fuller assured himself. He put on his blinker before passing a tandem of tractor trailers hauling massive pieces of steel, exiting the interstate a mile and a half later. After turning right at the end of the off-ramp, he pulled into a twenty-four-hour convenience store to get fuel and grab a few things for the day.

Inside, on his way to the coolers in the back, an elderly Indian clerk greeted him from behind the counter with something he didn’t quite catch. He nodded, giving the attendant an unforced smile in return. Fuller was in the best of moods that morning—and it showed—something not often seen upon the faces of those up before the sun. After noisily attempting to clear his throat, the older gentleman uttered something else indistinguishable while giving him his change. Fuller simply replied Thanks, accompanied with another smile, then slid his wallet back into the front pocket of his shorts.

As he passed the newsstand near the door, the front page of a local paper caught his attention. After skimming the first couple of paragraphs of the story, he exited the store—his curiosity stirred like sediment at the bottom of a well. Local meteorologists apparently had a mystery on their hands. According to the article, dozens of witnesses over the last two nights had reported observing strange, colorful, lightning-like activity out over the Gulf—despite no chance of storms in the forecast either evening.

Briefly intrigued, Fuller looked westward while walking back to his vehicle. Aside from a sinking crescent moon, only a scatter of clouds occupied the predawn sky. A slow, weak front had begun to push through the area last night but wasn’t supposed to bring anything in the way of precipitation. For whatever reason, it was easy to picture the wider but slower iridescent lightning—as one eyewitness had described it—as though he’d seen it in a dream perhaps.

It was an interesting story, but he didn’t give it much thought past that—not with more pertinent things on his mind that morning. Already daydreaming about the potential battles awaiting him on the open water, Fuller pumped fifty dollars’ worth of gas into his truck and left.

It was going to be one of those days; there wasn’t a doubt in his mind about that. Even if the action out on the Gulf wasn’t up to par, today would still end up being the most fun he’d had that summer—the only fun when he thought about it. The first car Fuller passed in the opposite-bound lanes flashed their lights as they sped by, courteously alerting him he had forgotten to turn on his own.

After pulling into the marina and parking, Fuller finished the last few swigs of his lukewarm coffee. He was actually there. It had taken considerable effort (like always), but he’d finally managed to find the time.

Fuller grinned as he got out, deeply inhaling the rich marine air through his nostrils. For the next forty-eight hours, he was free from all responsibilities and obligations—and planned on taking full advantage of his time off.

As Fuller gathered everything he needed out of his truck under the security lights in the parking lot, an ancient Ford Escort with a screeching belt turned into the marina. As the noisy pile of shit approached, Fuller couldn’t help but stare. The driver of the dilapidated, once-all-blue car paid him no mind as he drove past, heading around the back where Fuller knew most of the staff was required to park. Even after the car disappeared behind the main building, the high-pitched squeal of the belt could still be heard. The obtrusive noise continued longer than one would assume it’d take someone to park and turn their obnoxious sounding vehicle off. Even muffled by the building, the sound quickly became irritating; unnecessary noise was unquestionably one of his bigger pet peeves—if not the biggest. Fuller wasn’t about to let it get to him though…not today. As he started toward the water (lugging his cooler on the first of the two or three trips it would take to get everything aboard), it finally stopped.

Down on the docks, a damp, steady breeze made it feel cooler than the last few mornings—but it would warm up soon enough. As he loaded his boat, the first hint of sunlight emerged from the clouds hugging the horizon behind him. Although the sky was still somewhat cloudy, the forecast for the weekend had not changed all week. Low eighties and plentiful sunshine once a weak front pushes through this morning, the meteorologist on Channel 3 had reaffirmed little more than an hour ago during breakfast.

After getting everything aboard, Fuller took his cast net along with a five-gallon bucket down to where he usually caught bait from shore. There, the dock lights attracted all sorts of bugs—which, in turn, lured in what he was after.

By his third cast, he easily had a hundred baitfish in the bucket, along with a few nice shrimp as well. He picked out some of the smaller ones (tossing them back one at a time as he headed down the dock) before the rest got dumped into the boat’s live well.

He was on his own that morning, unfortunately, his friend Aaron having bailed nearly last minute. In the curt text he sent last night, his friend had claimed it was work related, but Fuller felt the excuse lacked credibility. Woman related, more like it. He was still under the impression that his buddy’s current lady friend wasn’t exactly fond of him—not after she attempted to set him up with a friend of hers one night.

Due to nothing more than shit luck, Fuller had run into the two one evening a few months back. He hadn’t been to a bar in months and just had to pick that place—that Thursday—of all fuckin’ nights. He’d met his pal’s new woman twice before and had developed an almost-immediate dislike for her. It wasn’t any one thing he could pinpoint to justify his distaste of her…yet the fact remained. She and her friend Angie were already well on their way that evening when the universe laughingly brought them together.

Out of respect for his friend, Fuller had tolerated their drunken twaddle as long as he could. His buddy’s hammered girlfriend had been relentless, but her friend Angie had quite possibly been the most annoying and self-centered person he’d ever met: something (in his eyes) that easily negated anything she had going for her appearance-wise. There must have been something about his obvious lack of interest that presented itself as a challenge, evident by her sudden persistence to sway him with her charm that evening. Twice she had taken offense when he declined her offer of getting together sometime. When they refused to let him leave after he had paid his tab, his patience wore even thinner. Still, Fuller played the good soldier…up until the insults started flying anyway.

That was when it got personal; keeping his opinions to himself was an attribute he’d never entirely acquired, especially when provoked. And so what if he had speculated (aloud) that if her vagina had an odometer, it would have rolled over years ago? After all, it was her that had started with the belligerent comments when it finally sank in that he wasn’t interested (although why he tended to remain single wasn’t exactly a mystery).

It would have been more fun with him along for the trip, but having to go it alone wasn’t about to dampen Fuller’s spirit; it wouldn’t be the first time. His poles, a live well with plenty of bait, and a cooler full of cold beverages were the only things he really needed for a day on the Gulf—that along with some snacks he’d grabbed while stopping for fuel and the sandwich he had brought from home.

The relatively calm water and gradually clearing skies set the stage for a perfect day to fish. In two hours (give or take), he’d be drifting over an old wreck that someone had given him the coordinates to last year, hopefully pulling them in one after another again. This would be his fourth trip out to the wreck but his first flying solo. Aaron had come along the three previous times, while his buddy Kyle had joined them on their last excursion. All three trips could not have gone better. The weather got sketchy just the once—and that was only for an hour on their second trip while trying to outmaneuver a pop-up thunderstorm; the fishing had been phenomenal each time.

The sound of the thirty-two-foot vessel’s motors awakening put an instant grin on his face. Nothing got the blood circulating quite like hearing that. This was one of the increasingly rare chances he got those days, a chance to escape and loosen life’s noose. The trip was long overdue; too many monotonous months had passed since his boat last skipped across the open water. Getting out only two or three times a year hardly justified what it cost to keep it on the water anymore, but Fuller could never give it up entirely. Year after year, he renewed the slip lease, promising himself each time he’d start getting out more. He often thought of these momentary escapes as the anchor of his sanity. For him, when it came to let go of all worldly burdens, nothing surpassed an afternoon afloat. Being on the water, aligned within its eternal motion, always centered him. Out there, he felt like an actual part of something: something more than just another spoke in the wheel.

Just as he went to untie the boat from the wharf’s cleats, Aaron came lumbering down the dock, carrying a case of Miller High Life in one hand, his fishing pole in the other. Attired in flip-flops, black gym shorts, and a faded garnet-and-gold FSU T-shirt, his closest pal since elementary school was breathing heavily—and looked as though he had only awoken minutes ago. In the early light of dawn, his close-cut blond hair glistened with sweat.

Fuller turned the motor off grinning broadly, pleased his amigo had made it. I thought you had to work, anus?

The indifference on his face told Fuller all he needed to know. When you knew someone as long as he and Aaron had been in cahoots, certain things were impossible to lie about undetected. As he went to climb aboard, Aaron handed him the beer then his fishing pole.

It was her, wasn’t it? The noticeable irritation and embarrassment in Aaron’s expression was the only confirmation necessary. Ignoring the question completely, Aaron changed the subject. I’m glad I caught you, dude. Obviously, you haven’t checked your phone in the last half hour.

Pulling his iPhone from the front pocket of his cargo shorts, he saw the three texts and one missed call from his cohort. Shit. My bad, man, Fuller apologized, putting his phone away. I never heard ’em over the music.

It’s cool. I’m just relieved I got here in time. I needed a day.

"I’m glad you came, man. It’s good seeing your white ass. So how did you get away? I fuckin’ knew that text last night about you having to work was whoreshit. She still hates me, I take it?" he added—perhaps a bit too cheerfully.

Dude, anytime your name comes up, I get to hear all about how much of an asshole you were to her friend that night…again. I never thanked you for that, by the way, Aaron replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Ahhhhh, don’t mention it. Anytime, brother, replied Fuller with his trademark straight-faced sarcasm.

Did you really tell her friend Angie that her vagina’s odometer probably rolled over a few years back?

Fuller immediately chuckled. Words to that effect, I suppose. That’s pretty funny she told you that actually.

I’m glad you think so. Now her friend thinks I’m an asshole too.

What? Why? Guilty by association or some shit? Fuller asked, trying his best to sound appalled. That’s kinda fucked up, he concluded, smirking.

Not exactly, asshole, Aaron began. I was still up when they got back that night.

And…?

And I couldn’t stop fuckin’ laughing after she told me what you said. Though now that I think about it, the weed mighta played a part.

Envisioning that very scene play out made Fuller smile. That is fuckin’ great. I wish I had seen it.

You’re such an ass. Seriously, I had to leave the living room. They were both ready to kill me.

His day just continued to get better. Picturing Aaron’s girlfriend and her friend getting pissed off at his buddy for laughing at something he had said himself was a pleasant thought, one that guiltlessly warmed him within. Getting under the skin of people he didn’t care for was one of his guilty pleasures, one he cherished—and occasionally indulged—when an opportunity presented itself. You still didn’t tell me how you managed to break free this morning, he continued, not missing a beat, unwilling to let it go until he heard a plausible explanation.

Fuck her. Let’s just go, replied Aaron, obviously reluctant to discuss that particular topic.

Hah! Is that right? You guys get into it? he asked, continuing to pry undeterred.

Yeah, last night. She stormed out right before I crashed and didn’t come back. So…here I am.

Out…fuckin’…standing, he responded with a devilish grin, finally getting the truth out of Aaron. She’ll get over it. I’m just glad you made it. You ready to go yank some fish up and throw a few down?

"Fuckin’ right, but I don’t know about this few shit, he responded, tearing open the top of his case and depositing all but two of the sweating gold and white cans into Fuller’s cooler. It looks like you couldn’t have picked a better day."

It was a little early (and he still had two hours of navigating the boat to get them out to their spot), so he declined the adult refreshment when Aaron offered him one. Instead of putting the other one in the cooler with the rest, Aaron popped open his first and inhaled it before opening the one he’d offered Fuller.

Attaboy. Someone’s thirsty this morning.

Aaron responded with a belch that would have triggered Fuller’s truck alarm—had it been parked any closer.

Good gods. Just try and save me a couple, Alice, Fuller managed to get out just before cracking up, laughing. Honestly impressed with the decibel level of his friend’s flatulence, he restarted the boat.

His skin tingled as the Gulf air evaporated the thin layer of sweat that had accumulated on his scalp while getting everything aboard. Despite his eagerness to get out there, Fuller obeyed the posted speed limit and No Wake zones. The marine patrol around there was sticklers for the laws of the water—and known assholes, to boot. The two of them had crossed paths with local law enforcement once before out there, resulting in a couple of safety fines. It could have been worse, though, considering the skunky stuff they didn’t find on Aaron.

Once out of the channel, he turned north. Wanting to feel that rush of adrenaline that came from the open air hitting you in the face at forty knots, the bow of the vessel rose as he slammed the throttle forward.

No more than twenty minutes had passed since they left shore, yet Aaron was already cracking open his fourth. Neither he nor his friend were exactly amateurs when it came to enjoying some cold ones, but Fuller couldn’t recall ever having seen him drink with such a thirst—not even right after they first turned twenty-one and frequented just about every watering hole in a ten-mile radius for the better part of that year. It seemed abundantly obvious that the fallout with his girlfriend was Aaron’s primary motivation for getting tanked that early morning on the Gulf.

About twenty miles from shore, Fuller changed his mind about drinking and motioned for Aaron to grab him one as his lifelong friend headed toward the cooler for his sixth. At his current pace, he wasn’t going to be in any shape to stand—let alone fish—by the time they arrived, Fuller surmised. You might wanna pace yourself, Cletus, he dutifully informed his friend as Aaron handed him one of the IPA’s Fuller had brought along. If your drunk ass falls overboard, you’re on your own, he added jokingly, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the twin motors.

You’re right! he yelled back, already all smiles from the alcohol. Do you mind stopping for a sec so I can piss over the side? I’d go below, but I doubt I’d get much in the toilet, he admitted, tipping back his can for another indulgent swig.

Fuller obliged, knowing damn well once Aaron broke the seal, he’d have to stop again before they reached their destination. A minor inconvenience for the camaraderie, he decided.

The owner of the boat laughed as he watched his buddy trying to piss over the side with one hand, hilariously attempting to keep himself on two feet with the other. The water had a moderate chop to it that had the boat swaying back and forth to an extent, but nothing that warranted the laughable effort his friend was exerting to keep his balance.

Just as he had expected, fifteen minutes later, there was another request to stop. Completely entertained, Fuller watched again as his friend struggled that attempt as well. The waves had picked up some since their last stop (although they were still relatively mild, considering their distance from shore), but not enough to justify his friend’s humorous difficulties. Fuller took the opportunity to relieve himself as well that stop, his morning coffee ready to join the great big blue.

As he shook dry and pulled his shorts back up, a dolphin broke the surface not far from them, making a brief appearance before darting back below. It wasn’t uncommon to have dolphins follow them out; he always saw them out here in the open water of the eastern Gulf of Mexico. Sometimes they’d even approach the boat if you held out a piece of fish. A few noisy seagulls circled above, cawing casually between themselves, it seemed. Out there, birds were always on the lookout for a free meal. Occasionally, some would even have the audacity to come aboard and try to steal the bait or your catch.

You good to go, sweetheart? Or should we just wait here a couple minutes until your infant-sized bladder requires emptying again?

You’re fuckin’ hilarious. Have I ever told you that before? Aaron responded while opening the cooler, not sounding half as drunk as he looked. Fuller was about to intervene until he realized Aaron was just grabbing a bottle of water. Can I get one of those too? he asked.

Fuller downed all sixteen ounces of it then tossed the empty bottle back to Aaron to dispose of in the trash. After checking their position on his navigational system mounted aside the wheel, Fuller hammered the throttle heading north-northwest toward their destination.

As the boat banked, a glimmering reflection flashed in his peripheral. At first, he assumed it was just another boat—until he turned and actually looked. What loomed in the distance was far from a boat—or anything else he had ever seen: in the direction of shore, a perfectly vertical beam of light towered into the sky. Despite a cluster of clouds directly above it, the light shone unimpeded into the atmosphere. From his perspective, it was as wide as the sun, shooting up from the earth like an illuminated jet of water. Wherever it ended in the vast blue above was beyond his range of vision.

What in the fuck is that? You see this shit?

There was no response from his friend—yet he didn’t turn around—too enthralled by the anomaly to divert his gaze. Blown away by what he saw, Fuller continued onward, uncertain of what to do. It didn’t look real.

Whatever it was, his eyes refused to look elsewhere. Unable to comprehend what was happening back toward land, he slowed the boat down until it was just idling adrift. Now at the mercy of the current, he turned the motors off.

As he gazed uncontrollably at the light’s radiance, a queer sensation enveloped him. Every instinct he possessed told him it was time to panic—that something bad was going to happen—yet suddenly he was frighteningly sedate, a type of unnatural calm he had never experienced before. Something within the light—something tranquilizing and irresistibly magnetic—began beckoning something within him. Despite it diminishing his motor skills along with his sense of hearing, it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling in the least. Even stranger, at that moment, he did not care or even have the slightest desire to fight it. As his remaining senses faded, he no longer felt anything. The last thing he remembered with any clarity was the surface of the water darkening—right before everything just turned off.

Entranced, he stood there until the overpowering allure of it weakened, gradually allowing him to regain some control. The light remained, looming eerily at a distance like a storm on the horizon. As his cognizance returned, it was obvious he wouldn’t be doing any fishing today.

Suddenly he turned around to check on Aaron (having completely forgotten about his passenger amid the insanity), just to realize he was the only one on deck. He bolted for the other side of the vessel, frantically scouring the water’s surface for any sign of his friend. When his panorama of the surrounding Gulf came up empty, a sense of dread engulfed him. It didn’t make much sense that he would be below, but the notion that he might be lying down gave Fuller the smallest glimmer of hope.

Hey, Aaron! You down there? Fuller yelled as he opened the door, pleading that he was. His question went unanswered. Horrified, he returned his focus to the Gulf, desperate to find his friend.

His legs and back ached, and it was hot out now, even with a breeze still present. Somehow Fuller felt sunburned already. When he glanced up at the sun after coming up empty on the starboard side of the vessel, some rudimentary math indicated it had been at least five hours since leaving shore. How was that possible? Incredulous to the matter, he pulled his phone from his shorts to check the time. It was ten past noon. His guess based on the sun’s position had been all too accurate: it really had been hours since departing that morning.

As panic over his friend’s whereabouts took hold, his next instinct was to radio the coast guard for help. For the next ten minutes, Fuller repeatedly tried contacting them on his VHF radio after sending out a DSC (mayday) distress call. Regardless of what he tried, Fuller got nothing but broken static coming from the other end. After coming to the sobering realization that he was on his own out there, Fuller knew his only hope of finding him would be to follow the current.

Knowing Aaron could be miles away by now, it was hard not to push the boat to its limit the moment he started it. Aaron had always been a strong swimmer—though depending on how long he had been treading water, Fuller knew he might not have much time. Yet the faster he went, the greater the odds of driving past him grew.

Following the current, he never took the boat above twenty knots for the first forty-five minutes—but to no avail. Fuller did his best to keep his eyes off what still pulled at him from the distance, though never made it longer than a few minutes before he had to look again. The sensation he couldn’t shake—regardless if he were looking or not—disturbed him to his core.

Increasing his speed, he searched futilely for another hour. By then, the odds of finding him alive or otherwise were no better than the proverbial needle in a haystack, and he knew it. His radio remained silent. He felt obligated to continue looking—yet found it impossible to deny the light was summoning him back toward shore.

Turning the vessel around regretfully, he hammered the throttle and headed back, bringing the light into full view. Staring at it once again made his missing friend lose some significance, as harsh as that seemed, but seeing something so much larger than oneself—something you can’t begin to comprehend—had a way of making everything else seem like background noise.

Needing someone to confirm the crazy shit unfolding was indeed real, he first called Kyle, only to get his voice mail after five rings. In the following minutes as he continued toward land, he called four more friends and then a coworker, only to get each of theirs as well. None of this was really happening, he wanted to assure himself—he was still asleep—but the notion felt as hollow as the salt-laden air around him. The entire ride back was surreal, like he was on autopilot, as though something else had taken over.

Two hours later, he reached the channel. Disregarding the No Wake signs, he tore toward the marina with an escalating sense of urgency, all the while trying to keep an eye out for anyone outside along the waterway. Unfortunately, each property he passed was as vacant as the previous. Just wake up, he told himself repeatedly.

When he reached the docks and drifted into his spot, the whole place looked deserted. Aside from the strange light and the fact that no one appeared to be around, nothing else seemed amiss. Fighting his rampant curiosity, he tried to avoid looking directly at it; the ominous column frightened yet still intrigued him. He had yet to come up with an explanation for what happened to him earlier and could not risk letting it occur again.

Despite the light’s perpetual allure, it seemed like it would work as he killed the engine and climbed out; as long as he no more than glanced at it, his mind remained lucid enough to stay composed. Still, something about it pulled at him in a way he couldn’t—but direly needed to—understand.

It was unusual for the marina to ever be completely vacant, especially on the weekend. There were a few more cars there than when he left, but still no people that he could see. As soon as the boat was secure, he grabbed his poles and tackle box then sprinted to his truck, deciding against going back for his cooler. Considering the circumstances, taking the time to off-load any of his gear seemed nonsensical, but certain habits were hard to break.

On his way to the truck, he kept envisioning getting to the parking lot and finding Aaron standing next to his car, ready to tell him some wild story about how he made it back to shore. When he found his friend’s car parked two spaces past his vehicle—but no Aaron—that delusion faded entirely.

After starting his truck, Fuller rolled past the restaurant located in the marina slow enough to get a good look inside. From what he could see, it was just as abandoned as the rest of the place. Beyond confused, he stopped at the marina’s exit just long enough to send out a group text to ten of his friends. Before pulling out, he looked both ways twice, finding the street just as deserted each glance. In need of answers, the truck’s tires squawked as he tore out of the parking lot.

Nothing.

Not a single pedestrian.

Not one occupied vehicle aside from his, though he could tell some of the ones he passed were still running. What the fuck was going on?

As he approached the on-ramp two miles up the road, traffic on the overpass was at a standstill: hundreds of cars sat motionless in the gridlock. The more Fuller looked around, the more he noticed additional vehicles parked in unusual places and positions. After pulling over under the overpass behind a white SUV, he cautiously got out.

After circling the vehicle, he found it abandoned but still running, its front driver-side door left open. The sound of some top-ten crap wailed from the car’s speakers. It didn’t make sense. Literally shaking his head, he stood there trying his best to grasp the situation as some tween idol belted out the annoyingly simple chorus of something that had no doubt made them a recent fortune. Annoyed by it already, Fuller leaned inside and turned the car off. Remembering